But those days are over—quite over. “There was a keg, hash, LSD, pot, you know, the usual. "My horse is at the door, saddled, with pistols in the holsters,—mount him and fly. By the time I had recovered myself she had gone. " "Thank God for that!" cried Wood, heartily. CHAPTER XXVIII. The poor wretch, driven by desperation to the commission of a crime which her soul abhors, is no more beyond the hope of reformation than she is without the pale of mercy.
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